No Tea for Me

By Joel Stein

Throughout my childhood, my grandmother and I had a storybook romance. I got birthday cards with checks inside, she got pictures of me, and occasionally we'd engage in short, awkward phone conversations--not dissimilar to the workings of a kiddie-porn ring. But the checks-and-pictures ritual lost its utility ever since I got a paid job and am no longer cute when I sit on the toilet naked, at least in the opinion of most people who look through my wallet photos. Our relationship has become more forced and awkward, as if she's suddenly clued into the fact that I am here to replace her.

A few weeks ago, Mama Ann flew in from Fort Lauderdale, Fla., to stay at my dad's new apartment in Manhattan for a few days. Because little goes on at TIME on Mondays other than searching for typos in one another's articles, I told Mama Ann I'd take the day off and do grandmother things with her, like having tea. But when I called the week before, she told me she wasn't getting in until Monday night. So I made dinner reservations. But my father called from the airport to tell me that Mama Ann had eaten on the flight and wasn't interested in going out. I've been rejected for many reasons, but never for airline food.

On the way back from the airport, my dad parked the car in front of my apartment while I leaned over the passenger's seat and talked to Mama Ann. The conversation mostly focused on her fear that they would get a ticket.

I asked her if she wanted to meet me for breakfast the next morning at the Rainbow Room, which is on the 65th floor and has views of all of Manhattan. She told me she wasn't much of a breakfast person. I called her Tuesday afternoon, suggesting tea. She told me to come to my great-aunt and -uncle's apartment instead, since she'd already had a big lunch. I went there and sat for three hours while they talked about trips to Israel and newly discovered food allergies. Gluten is a silent killer.

I tried again Wednesday morning to suggest an early afternoon tea. She left a message saying she was going to lunch with my dad's wife and, anyway, she'd done tea at the Plaza before. "You just sit there in your office and write something funny," she said. You can skate the sarcasm line in a whole different way when you're 80.

I started to wonder if a relationship between two people who rarely see each other and have nothing in common can still be love. And I couldn't help wondering if my dad's constant suggestion to call my grandmother because "it's all she talks about to her friends all week" is slightly dishonest. But even though she didn't want to do anything with me, Mama Ann did seem awfully happy to just sit and talk and see her family together. Tea, seeing a musical, antiques shopping--those were my images of what old people want. Actually, they're just things I want to do and need a grandmother as an excuse, the way Bill Clinton likes to hang out with single guys. At some age, you just want to sit still with the people you love and bask in the wonder of routine. And hope that your snot-nosed grandson isn't talking too quickly and quietly on purpose because your hearing is fading and he's actually making fun of your gaudy jewelry. Thank God we canceled the large-print edition of TIME.